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Stephenson halted his own mount. "You really aren't needed to help set up the camp—the servants will do a fine job."
    "True," she admitted, "but supervising their work gives me a good excuse to avoid sitting through all the flowery speeches, which will inevitably be followed by recitations of all the grievances that have accumulated over the last year."
    He grinned. "It will take at least three days to deal with all of the questions about whose buffalo wandered into whose field, and whose head got broken over it."
    "But you'll settle them all to everyone's satisfaction." Laura's brows drew together as she studied her stepfather's face. Under the shadow of his topi, his skin was pale and his expression drawn. "Don't stay too long. You look tired."
    "A little," he admitted. "I'll come back early and take a nap before dinner." He made a clucking noise to his horse and turned down the right-hand path.
    Laura took the left fork, which led to the campsite. When her father finished in Nanda, they would head north, then work their way west again. Progress was leisurely, for touring was a vital part of a district officer's responsibilities. While in theory a collector like Kenneth was primarily concerned with land taxation, in practice he was also magistrate, engineer, and even physician to the people of his district. Most of all, he was the physical expression of the
Sirkar
, the British government.
    The campsite was in a forest clearing, and the towering trees that surrounded it gave welcome shade. As expected, all was in order, with bullock carts unpacked, a dozen tents erected, and a cooking fire lit. On the far right side of the clearing, the tethered pack animals grazed peacefully on the lush grass.
    After dismounting and handing her horse over to a groom, Laura entered her tent. Camping was an odd mixture of discomfort and luxury, and she was always amused to see framed watercolors of Britain hanging on the canvas walls, and to feel her feet sink into a thick Indian carpet.
    With a sigh, she removed her topi and pushed sweaty hair off her forehead, hoping that the cool weather would arrive soon. After washing the dust from her face and neck, she went from her tent to her stepfather's. When she stepped inside, she chuckled. Not only were his furnishings correctly placed, but the book of essays he had been reading the night before had been replaced at precisely the same angle on the table. He was quite right; her supervision wasn't needed.
    Even so, Laura checked everything in the camp carefully, chatting with the cook and other servants as she ensured that all was in order. Keeping Up Standards was the first rule drilled into Englishwomen when they arrived in India, and it included everything from dressing for dinner to unflinching courage in the face of mortal danger. Though Laura doubted that what she wore had much effect on the prestige of the British Empire, she dutifully did her part.
     
    As he had promised, Kenneth Stephenson returned before sundown. "I'll be going hunting tomorrow," he said as he dismounted. "The headman told me there's a man-eating tiger in the area. Two villagers have been killed in the last fortnight."
    Laura gave the dense trees an alarmed glance. "Perhaps we should have camped by Nanda rather than out here."
    Kenneth chuckled. "Even a man-eater won't attack a camp this size. But don't wander off into the forest to gather flowers, and tell the servants to be careful as well."
    Laura frowned as she studied her stepfather's face. He looked distinctly unwell. "Have you forgotten to take your quinine? You look like you're sickening with fever."
    He grimaced. "You're probably right. I'll take a couple of tablets and a nap and be fine by dinner."
    Laura's gaze followed him as he went to his tent, but she was not unduly concerned. Fever was a way of life for Europeans in India, and most people ignored it unless they had a particularly bad attack.
    As she went to her own tent to bathe and change, a great